


On the Ground, In Mid-Air

by lobst_r



Series: In Flight, Two Boys [2]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Death Eaters, F/M, M/M, Pining while fucking, Pureblood Culture (Harry Potter), Pureblood Politics (Harry Potter), Quidditch, Second War with Voldemort, Slow Burn, Spies
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-02-02
Updated: 2021-03-03
Packaged: 2021-03-12 22:21:07
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,968
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29142885
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lobst_r/pseuds/lobst_r
Summary: In which, against all odds, Marcus Flint and Oliver Wood end up fighting on the same side.Or: Pining, a drawn-out war, misunderstandings, a botched pure-blood wedding and a host of (necessary) secrets to keep.
Relationships: Marcus Flint/Oliver Wood
Series: In Flight, Two Boys [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2139015
Comments: 30
Kudos: 44





	1. Matchday Blues

Bright lights. Cheering fans. Garish merchandise. Painted bellies. Mascots levitating all over the pitch. Random tickling spells. Dr. Filibuster products in the stands. Cursing. Shouting. Broken broomsticks. Rogue bludgers. Broken ribs. Broken noses. Concussions. Mid-air tussles. Mortally insulted referees. Reckless (and unsuccessful) attempts at the Wronsky feint. Mediwizards on strike.

Or, as Francis’ editor in chief at _Seeker Weekly_ would call it – nothing new. 

Her Quick-Quotes Quill hovered mid-air uselessly, twitching into motion whenever a thought formulated itself in her head before going limp again. On the pitch, Puddlemere and Falmouth were locked in a vicious scramble for the quaffel, the chasers on both sides not giving a single inch. The match was well into its third hour, and nowhere near finished. 

Maybe political tension had a way of bleeding into sports. Francis grimaced while Falmouth’s Horton clashed into Puddlemere’s keeper in a full-on dash. Of all the twelve seasons she’d covered by now, this one was by far the most brutal. Six matchdays in and already first-string players were being treated for injuries that had her shuddering in disgust. The widespread hazard also resulted in quite a few first-time opportunities for the players keeping the reserve bank warm with their pert behinds. 

“Ay, that must smart, laddie,” Parsons from the Prophet let out a string of colourful curses next to her. “Ye see that, Cadogan? That’s what ye get for being frugal. They should’ve got Mohammed for the bench when he was up for grabs in the summer…” 

Francis rolled her eyes at him, but her quill had started scribbling away. Why not do an angle on bench-warmers and newbies? There was a total of five players flying their first match of the season tonight, it was a good enough starting point for her damned article. She glanced through the copied line-ups in her folder, tapping the parchment with her wand until the relevant names glowed red. 

_Basara, Walid (33)_

_Flint, Marcus (19)_

_Pool, Proteus (22)_

_Silva, Alejandro (20)_

_Wood, Oliver (18)_

Proteus Pool was a beater on Puddlemere’s side, all of twenty-two years old, a giant Welshman. Walid Basara, a veteran seeker of the United Arabic Leagues, had come to England for his last years playing professional. Quidditch in the UK was, according to him, “a nice, relaxing affair”. A puzzling choice. Maybe Puddlemere appreciated his laid-back attitude, though Francis was betting on the low transfer sum. 

Casting a look upwards, she caught a glimpse of Basara looping around the goal hoops, looking for all of the world like he was enjoying a ride into the sunset while his teammates were locked in a frenzied, teeth-rattling battle for every point. Francis shrugged at his nonchalance, then groaned along with the rest of the audience when a Falmouth chaser bludgeoned his way through the opposing beaters, sending them both spiralling. He didn’t stop to check, but passed the quaffel along with a brilliant twist – SCORE! 

The stadium speaker, Ambrose Aargile, was having a field day with the match: “And that’s some risky play we’re seeing tonight from Flint! 560 to 490 for Falmouth. Holdsworth – Puddlemere’s got the quaffel, ow, dropped it! Flint again, Merlin’s beard, that was quick – Flint to Silva! Silva’s going in for the - Ah, brilliant save by Wood. Return pass to Wadcock –“ 

Francis tapped her wand again, Quick-Quotes Quill going off in a frenzy. Alejandro Silva, a Brazilian national who’d been scouted by the Falcons on account of his speed. The scoring-type, started off as a seeker but changed position once he grew two feet in height. Apparently didn’t speak a word of English. 

The match was briefly interrupted when a Puddlemere supporter launched himself off the stands on what appeared to be a badly transformed broom. “Is that Archie Aymslowe again?” She asked in the general direction of her fellow Quidditch journalists crowding the press booth, garnering a few bored sounds that indicated the affirmative. 

“He almost got arrested at the World Cup last year, wore some irregular muggle clothing and left his underwear at home, the old fart,” Prophet Parsons said. A few people let out weak laughs, but mostly everyone cringed. The 1994 Quidditch World Cup had been such a bloody clusterfuck, Francis didn’t even know where to start. The masked rioters, the dark mark appearing for the first time in thirteen years, the tormented muggle family… 

And now, rumours and whispers after a tragic death that had occurred during the Triwizard Tournament at Hogwarts. 

The game resumed after orderlies restrained a singing Archie, floating him off the pitch while trying and failing to put a silencing charm on the sod. Francis shook off the unpleasant thoughts and refocused, scanning the back and forth until she spotted her next candidate. Marcus Flint, a young lad of nineteen, spent last season on the bench for the Montrose Magpies before being transferred for a sizable sum. Ruthless flyer and a wicked shot, she noted. He fit the Falmouth criteria down to a tee, the sneer on his bruised face included. 

He could be one to watch. 

Aargile, meanwhile, was filling the stadium with his booming voice: “Puddlemere is calling foul! Where’s the referee? Passey, old pal, where ye’ at?” The Puddlemere home crowd booed and whistled, hurling creative insults with gusto. Flint had apparently collided with Puddlemere’s keeper, Wood, and the two of them were screaming their heads off while their respective teammates crowded them, yelling and pointing accusing fingers. Pal Passey, the unfortunate referee, took a while to elbow his way between them, bald head glowing with perspiration. 

“Interesting,” Francis said out loud, tapping her parchment again. Oliver Wood, eighteen, graduated Hogwarts the same year as Flint did. Sparing a look at his player profile she found herself quite charmed by the boy smiling up at her from the photograph. Handsome lad, Wood was. She would have to catch him after the match for a few pictures – no matter what anyone said, looks did sell, even with niche publications like hers. 

Unsurprisingly, Falmouth ended up winning, opening up an eight-point lead at the top of the table. Puddlemere had to swallow their second defeat in four matches, placing tenth over all. Francis apparated down to the edge of the pitch, darting her way through the towering athletes congratulating one another, chugging water and stripping out of their robes. She found Oliver Wood still perched on his broom in mid-air, looking like someone very close to him had only just died a rather grisly death. Ah, the young ones always took it too hard. 

“Francis Cadogan, _Seeker Weekly_ ,” she stuck up a hand at him and flashed her bright blue press badge all in one motion, trying for a winning smile. The boy seemed utterly perplexed, though he didn’t fly off in a screaming terror. That was a good enough start. “May I speak to you for a short interview?” 

Green camera smoke was already billowing over from where the Prophet was photographing Marcus Flint. Damn them, Flint was supposed to be her story tonight! She turned back to Wood, quill perched at the ready: “Mr. Wood, how was your first ever league game?” 

“Uh, it was fine, I suppose. Though of course we’d set out to win –“ The lad glanced down at her scribbling quill, eyebrows knitting together. Francis took the chance and whipped out her own camera for a shot. “Tell me, Mr. Wood, an unprecedented total of five new players debuted tonight, what do you think of their performance?” 

“We were too slow in our defence, the right flank left a gaping hole wide open and Silva’s always been known for his speed - ” Wood stopped himself, cheeks aglow. “Uh, I mean. I mean everyone played very well, of course…” 

Francis took pity on him and moved her scrambling quill slightly to the side. The poor lamb clearly hadn’t received any training for public appearances. Puddlemere, fiscally conservative since 1163, held true to their motto and never did spend money on anything besides the bare necessities. 

From the corner of her eye, she spied Flint walking away from where Prophet Parsons was gesticulating wildly while his photographer huffed and puffed. “Mr. Flint! May I – Francis Cadogan, _Seeker Weekly_ , I was only just speaking to Oliver Wood here. What did you think of Mr. Wood’s performance this evening?” 

Flint stopped, giving her a hostile look. His left eye was almost swollen shut, lip split and bleeding sluggishly down his chin. Wood slid off his broom, eyes darting this way and that, looking quite spooked. Heavy silence settled over the three of them. Francis glanced from one to the other, noting the way both were staring into different directions with intent. Wood, the darling boy, was flushed even redder than before, peering fixedly onto the ground. 

“You were in school together, is that right?” Francis raised her camera, capturing the awkward tableau they made with a heavy gust of magenta smoke. “Mr. Flint, can you tell us about the situation after your collision?” 

Marcus Flint glowered at her, scowl in place. “No, thanks.” 

Francis barely suppressed the urge to roll her eyes. It was easy to forget that she was dealing with _utter_ _children_ when said infants towered over six feet and packed enough muscles to kill a hippogriff. Wood, obviously the more pleasant one, gave her a forced smile: “We were both captains of our house teams.” His eyes darted towards Flint’s bruised faced before quickly turning towards the catacombs leading to the Puddlemere changing rooms. “Er, excuse me, we’ve a post-match team meeting.” 

Flint didn’t even bother to give her another look. He was already walking away to where most of his team was standing. As it often was with an all-male squad, congratulations were offered in the way of gruff posturing and a few friendly jostles. Francis wrinkled her nose at the stench of testosterone. She apparated out of the stadium and straight to the office, mood soured despite the story that was already writing itself on her cluttered desk. 

“How was it, then?” Jones asked from his side of the office. The idiot was decked out in his Chudley Cannons fan gear, the orange so bright it hurt Francis to look at him. He was probably going to write another glowing article on the Cannons seeker. What utter rubbish. But the editor in chief liked him, preferred his _concise writing_. 

She sometimes seriously asked herself why she’d picked this particular line of work. She could’ve trained to be a mediwizard, or worked for Gringotts, or _something_. Witches made up only fifteen percent of the British and Irish Quidditch League, and most of those numbers were covered by the Holyhead Harpies. At the Seeker Weekly office, she had remained the sole witch for the past ten years or so.

Jones was doing his usual spiel now, the horny wanker: “Have a pint with me at the Leaky, Cadogan, come on now! Loosen up some.” 

“Oh, Merlin, shut it!” She glared at him before casting a privacy spell around her desk. The bleeding imbecile, still hitting on her after a million and one rejections. She gave him the finger and turned her full attention to the article, quill already scratching away.

  
  


*

Something was sounding with an alarming intensity. Much like the hooting of an owl, but strangely mechanic, a maddening, repetitive melody. Oliver sat up in bed, disoriented in the half-light, heart beating out of synch with the last tendrils of a garishly intense dream. 

He cast the shielding charm he’d forgotten the previous night, blocking out the tedious noise the paper-thin walls of his tiny apartment afforded him. Finally, the electronic clock of his neighbour went silent. Outside his window a car honked, weaving into the tapestry of strange sounds that signalled muggle Bristol coming to life. 

It was his first official day off in over a month, he remembered, mood blackening within seconds.

Adrenaline spiked into his veins as last night’s match rushed back into his consciousness with the force of a bludger. The first three saves he hadn’t made. Horton’s bluff that’d put him on the wrong goal hoop. Silva’s triple score. The reporter who’d ambushed him. Ambrose Aargile, legendary stadium speaker, calling him “brilliant” that once. The way the crowd had booed and yelled. Archie Aymslowe speeding onto the field with his trousers off. Basara failing to catch the snitch _four bleeding times_. 

And of-fucking-course, there was Marcus bloody Flint.

Flint, who’d gotten an unforgivable six goals past him. Who hadn’t at all hesitated to crash into Oliver with full speed, telling him to get out of the way. Fucking Marcus Flint, who’d not even deigned to look him in the face after the whole ordeal. 

Losing matches in general made Oliver upset enough to seriously consider suicide by broom. This particular match? His first ever league game for Puddlemere with Marcus Flint on the opposing team? That had been enough for him to cry involuntary tears of undiluted anger all through his hour long shower.

Lying in bed, tense as a board, Oliver bit his lip until he tasted blood. He’d made so many fucking mistakes yesterday, misjudged so many damned situations in the split-seconds he’d had. After a year on the bench, he’d wanted nothing more than the chance to play one single match, to prove himself and show wizarding Britain what he could do. Now he felt foolish - all he’d obviously proven was his lack of preparedness. 

Something tapped against the rickety window to his right. Oliver turned in bed and saw Fletcher, his owl, settling on the windowsill while a large barn owl with the Daily Prophet tied to its leg hovered with its wings spread. He flicked the window open with his wand, the movement jerky and forceful with anger. The glass panes banged open against the wall, shattering and covering half the room with shards. 

The owls both screeched in a reproachful cacophony while Oliver cursed a blue streak. 

He was still picking out glass from the side of his face half an hour later, dabbing dittany on the cuts while smearing half the bathroom with blood. The letter Fletcher brought was from his mum, announcing an impromptu visit. The daily prophet had Harry Potter’s face printed on its cover alongside a scornful article on his credibility, while the sport’s section featured a large photograph of Flint tearing through the air, quaffle tucked beneath his left arm. 

“A NEW BROADMOOR ON THE RISE FOR FALCONS”, read the titel. 

He was still staring at the feature article on Flint when his mum flooed in carrying a breakfast casserole. “Lad, you look a fright,” she tutted at him. “I’ll put on the kettle, ay?” 

“This makes no sense! The Broadmoors were beaters, the comparison is absolute rubbish.” 

“Well, the Prophet has been absolute rubbish ever since July this year, darling.” 

They had a hearty meal together, Oliver attempting his best at a cheerful facade. The truth, however, was this: he had no time whatsoever for his cousin’s Hogwarts farewell dinner; he had no interest in knowing about the gnomes skipping gardens and attacking Mrs. Paterson’s cat; there was scarcely a thing he could imagine that interested him less than _Witch Weekly’s_ candidates for the Most Charming Smile Awards. Oliver loved his mum with all his being, bless her heart, but he heaved out a great sigh of relief once she finally flooed back to Scotland after dusting under his landlord’s squeaky leather couch.

Despite all his limbs protesting with aching pain, Oliver picked out his best muggle outfit and went for a punishing run. 

This was one of the things he’d learned early on during his first year of going professional: endure the pain. And Merlin, there was no shortage of it, even without being part of the starting line-up for a single match. The supposedly back-breaking practice schedules he’d enforced during his time as Gryffindor captain seemed laughably mild in comparison. 

His thighs throbbed with a dull stab, though that was barely noticeable against the sharp sting in his left shoulder blade. The exact shoulder blade Flint had charged into during last night’s match. The referee had refrained from calling foul, and wasn’t that something - Flint’s sneaky Slytherin tactics carrying over into his professional career. 

It was noon by the time he returned to his flat, nodding a congenial _how do you do_ to his muggle neighbour Mrs. Jenkins before stealthily apparating up four flights of stairs. He fed Fletcher, tidied up in the kitchen some more, straightened out his bedding and endured a cold shower before collapsing onto the couch. There it was again, the Prophet article on Flint, newcomer and rising star. 

**A NEW BROADMOOR ON THE RISE FOR FALCONS**

by Algernon Parsons 

Last season’s champions, the Falmouth Falcons, met Puddlemere United in a spirited match on Saturday evening. Falmouth’s captain Andy Horton opened with two consecutive goals, leading his team towards a whopping 760 - 590 win. 

Two new faces in Falmouth’s lineup proved a thorough success for Falcon’s head coach Aeolus Munn. Alejandro Silva (20) and Marcus Flint (19) - 

Oliver stopped reading. He’d gone through the article a dozen times already, there wasn’t a single bit of information he’d left undigested. Still, gazing at Flint’s black and white form flitting in and out of the photograph stirred up a riot of emotions, tangled up and knotted in a chaotic heap. There was no telling where the anger ended and the humiliation began. 

Yes, he could admit to himself that he was thoroughly miserable. Maybe living the dream wasn’t such a pleasant affair after all. Pushing through with two seasoned keepers ahead of you. The constant pressure to perform, no matter how mundane the task. Having no time for anything but flying. Merlin’s beard, the last one all but did him in - even on his single free day of the month, quidditch was all he could think about. It accompanied every waking and sleeping second of his life. What used to feel natural as breathing now seemed stifling. 

And fucking Marcus Flint.

Oliver had written him a total of three letters, because he was a hopeless idiot with no self-respect. The first one consisted of a few scrawling sentences: _Made reserve keeper for Puddlemere, see you on the pitch_ , or something exuberant and cocky along those lines. The second one he’d sent during his first injury, six weeks into the season. He’d written it on a fever-high, hopped up on potions while his broken leg healed within a night. He didn’t properly remember the contents, and of that he was glad. The shame would’ve been too much to handle. The third letter he’d sent this summer after Flint’s transfer to Falmouth, a few casual sentences on being right after all. He had regretted sending it immediately after chucking Fletcher out the window. 

Flint hadn’t deigned to answer, not even once. 

Yet another owl found him lying on the couch, deep in his dismal thoughts. The autumn day was still bright outside, the trees in his muggle neighbourhood a riot of warm colours. He recognized the mean looking long eared owl immediately. It’s owner was none other than Proteus Pool. Asking him to have supper at the local pub, most likely. 

He jotted down an affirmative answer, even though seeing people was the last thing on his wish list. 

Percy’s screech owl Hermes completed the unholy owl bombardment while he was changing into respectable robes, dropping off a heavy envelope that turned out to be filled with ministry brochures on new quidditch regulations that were still pending. He leafed through them with mild exasperation before turning on the spot, pushing back a wave of unpleasant thoughts.

“Alright there, Wood?”

The familiar, faint waft of tangy butterbeer filled the air. Oliver blinked against the customary gloom that filled the Hatchet Inn, a scant few floating candles and the glow of the fireplace the only sources of light. He glanced up at his newest teammate, standing up at the bar with a massive jug in hand, the whole two metres of him blocking the rest of the room from view.

“Alright, Pool,” he greeted back, reaching up to clasp a meaty shoulder.

“Ah, such a long face, Wood. You’re the type that takes losing personally, I gather.” Pool took a healthy gulp before signalling for the matron. Oliver scowled at him briefly before letting out a mighty sigh, plopping down at the bar.

They had large helpings of shepherd’s pie with buttered parsnips, the inn filling gradually once the evening crowd trickled in. Every now and then someone would greet them with the unmistakable look of a disgruntled Puddlemere fan, Archie Aymslowe came over to dish out advice on formations once or twice and a stooped little witch asked to get her top hat signed, but all in all it remained a quiet evening.

“It was a good first match, I reckon.” Proteus stretched out his arms after inhaling his third portion. “Both did alright for ourselves.”

“Honestly? It was a disaster.” Oliver pushed the rest of his mash around his plate, stomach clenching with frustration once again. “Flint scored –“ he stopped himself, falling silent abruptly as a wave of self-hatred rose up.

“Mate, I sense that a lengthy stroll is in order,” Proteus had swished out a handful of sickles, dropping them on the bar with a flick of his surprisingly delicate wand. “What’d’you say, ey?”

Defeated once again by Pool’s good-natured kindness, Oliver let himself be tugged along, headed towards the riverside. Dusk was falling, and in the half-light they talked back and forth, keeping away from any jogging muggles. Even after more than a year out of Hogwarts Oliver still wasn’t used to Bristol, the mundane quaintness of it all, the utterly non-magical surroundings.

“Quidditch aside – “ Pool joined him in a brief chuckle, his low baritone vibrating in the air, “No, I mean it, man. I’m curious, what do you think of all that tosh the Prophet’s been writing?” He kept his voice light, but Oliver glanced up and imagined that he’d seen a crease between Pool’s thick-set brows.

“It’s exactly what you said, isn’t it? Complete tosh.” He remembered what his mother had said that morning and repeated it with some more conviction: “The Prophet has been rubbish since July.”

“You believe him, then? Harry Potter – and Dumbledore, as well?”

Oliver stopped walking, properly turning to look at Proteus Pool, whose face was now cast in shadows. He sensed, all of a sudden, that the question was more serious than the beater had let on at first. “Yes, I do. I believe Harry.”

He felt the truth of the words once they had left his mouth. It also occurred to him that it was the first time anyone had asked his opinion on the matter. Professional quidditch, he thought bitterly, made people rather isolated. The outside world only existed through a haze; the problems of the world seemed quite intangible compared to the very real concern of playing a good attacking formation. It took him a second to look up once again and realize that Pool had been watching him closely.

“That’s grand. Good we agree on this, mate. Voldemort being back and all.”

They both jumped a little, but it was Oliver who stumbled and very nearly fell over a park bench. He caught himself, heart rabbiting away in his chest: “Why would you say – I mean…”

“It’s what Potter says. And Dumbledore.”

“Yes, I suppose – you’re right, but you _needn’t say the name_!” Oliver spluttered. He rightened himself and immediately felt foolish, though something inside him sparked with curiosity. He hadn’t pegged Pool for the type, the type that discussed politics and said You-Know-Who’s name out loud.

“I suppose saying the name makes it all more real to me, y’know? Makes me realize that he’s out there, and that we have to be prepared. For what’s comin’.” Pool kept his voice low, but he turned his head, so the orange glint of the muggle streetlamps illuminated the side of his face. “Wouldn’t you agree?”

Oliver stared at him, heart thundering away once again. “Yes. I’d agree.”

All of a sudden, Pool let out a large guffaw, clapping his meaty paw onto the nape of Oliver’s neck. “That’s grand, that’s grand. Good to know we’re on the same parchment here.”

And just like that, they were back to discussing reverse passes and Transylvanian tackles. Oliver barely had time to recover from the whiplash, but then Pool was already bidding him goodnight, citing their first training session at six in the bloody morning. They both apparated back home after a casual farewell, though Oliver imagined the handshake had been much firmer than usual.

Lying in bed at a quarter to ten like a good little athlete, he couldn’t help but feel that he’d passed a test he hadn’t known about.


	2. An Unexpected Dinner Guest

Zippy had everything ready by a quarter to seven.

The steak and kidney pie was floating in a protective heating sphere, yesterday’s quidditch gear had been washed and dried and the bed made with fresh linen. Elf-made wine was already breathing in a decanter, a favoured vintage from Norfolk. He popped around the townhouse, making sure that every last speck of dust was wiped from the antique furniture, anxiety making his innards tighten. Things had been rather unpleasant between his Mistress and Young Master Marcus this past year.

The portrait of Etheldred Flint, a great-great-grandmother of his Master Reginald, followed him around with a host of snide commentary while the last few cushions were straightened. Zippy bowed periodically to appease the beak-nosed old woman draped in black, though it frayed his nerves. All the portraits at Flint Manor rather liked Zippy, were kind to him, even. The family’s London residence had been rarely visited until Young Master Markus moved in during the summer.

The house elf proceeded to wait by the large, handsome fireplace, eyes darting this way and that, double checking every nook and cranny. His Mistress disliked “dirt, dust and disorder” even more than she disliked the Young Master pursuing a career in quidditch.

The wait wasn’t a long one: Within a scant few minutes familiar, emerald green flames blazed up, and the figure of his Mistress Corentine appeared, spinning round and round until she stepped out of the fireplace, straightening her robes with a swish of her wand. “So, he isn’t home yet, I presume? Going to make me wait, like last time?”

“No, Mistress,” Zippy hurried to hang up his Mistresses’ cloak, flicking a thought towards a chair, which pulled itself out just in time for her to sit. “He will be home any moment, Mistress. Wine, Mistress?”

He didn’t have time to start on the wine, however, as a conspicuous “plop” sounded in the hallway, followed by the heavy footsteps of Young Master Marcus. Zippy immediately backed into a corner, and with some difficulty blended into the pattern of the satin wall hangings, hands fisted in the starchy corners of his dish towel.

“Zip? You there?”

He didn’t dare react when Young Master Marcus called out for him. The expression on his Mistresses’ face had turned stony while she sat and silently waited. The Young Master came skipping into the sitting room, still in most of his quidditch things, boots grimy with mud. “Zippy? Oh – yeah, right. Hello, mother.”

“Not happy to see me, I expect?” The Mistress had a tick in her jaw, something that always signalled trouble. Zippy held his breath while the Young Master dropped into an armchair. There was a trace of a flush on his face, hair windswept and flecked with snow. A familiar scowl was appearing: “Excuse me for being late.”

The Mistress flared her nostrils. “If only you had the good sense to show your manners with the Selwyns.”

“That girl has barely turned seventeen –“

“Eudora is in her last year –“

“You expect me to go around courting children –“

“She is a fully grown witch of good breeding – “

Mother and son stared each other down while Zippy cowered in his corner, ears flattened against the shouting. It was always the same fight: Young Master Marcus did not want to marry. It was already the fourth time this year that he’d failed to turn up to an arranged dinner, tea or soirée to meet his potential match. 

“You stubborn, awful boy! If only I’d birthed a squib, I could’ve disowned you straight away without causing a ruckus –“

“DO IT, THEN! Disown me!”

“Look at you, ungrateful brat, sitting in your father’s townhouse –“

“I was completely happy in Croydon, mother, until you blackmailed me into moving here –“

“People were talking! What with you going off to play quidditch, living in that dreadful Muggle dunghill…”

“I don’t give a flying kneazel’s arse what people think –“

“Well, you should, Marcus. _Now more than ever_.” The Mistress had rightened herself, and there was now the barest hint of a tremble in her voice. “With what has finally happened this summer… it should be more important than ever. We mustn’t seem…”

“Stop talking, mother. I don’t want to know.” The Young Master had gone white as a piece of parchment. He stood, eyes stubbornly fixed on the dark windows. Outside, snow was coming down, draping the streets with a powdery layer of white. “Good evening.” And with another “plop”, Young Master Marcus disapparated. Zippy sent out a few thoughts, probing throughout the house, but the Young Master had gone.

He crept towards the table, where his Mistress was sitting stiff as a statue, all the colour gone from her face. “A blood traitor. My son, a blood traitor,” she said to the room in general. Then she, too, stood and turned on the spot, disapparating without another word. 

*

In 1599, Magnus William Flint travelled to the East Indies and returned with a case full of pillaged magical gemstones, the first of many imports that made him and his descendants rich beyond imagining. He continued on as one of the founders of the English East India Company, one of only three wizards to join the Muggle venture in his time. Flint, Selwyn and Malfoy.

Marcus had known all of this by heart since he was a child, roaming around Flint Manor, giving the house elves charged with minding him headaches and head injuries alike. Even as the years passed on and he attempted at filling his head with other information (mostly on quidditch), the details stubbornly remained etched on the inside of his thick skull.

The Houses Flint and Selwyn had last joined exactly five generations ago: a certain Georgiana Flint had married the infamous Cadmus Selwyn, a potioneer who’d managed to off himself with a load of ill-begotten Amortentia. Her twin Sister Dorothea married Rowan Malfoy, who was almost fifteen years her junior. The double-wedding was, despite the well documented protestations of the child-groom, hailed as “the great reunification”.

And without a sodden doubt, this was exactly what Marcus’ parents were plotting at.

The day had been fine so far, just bloody fine. Morning drills with the team at a quarter to six. Specialised chaser practice until twelve, then a super-sized lunch at the Falmouth canteen. Endurance training from two till five. Strategic team meeting until seven, after. The muscles on his calves were screaming for mercy, and he’d already ingested three doses of pain potion this week, but it was _fine_.

It was exactly what he’d fucking wanted.

What he decidedly didn’t want was the whole load of toad-shite that came with his parents’ political scheming. Pureblood weddings; new alliances; strawberry blonde, haughty as hell Eudora Selwyn. He understood their reasoning well enough – he just couldn’t be bothered to care. Not with the Falcons on top of the league, not with him on first string for the past six matches. 

“Does Master Marcus wants the pudding for dessert?” It was Zippy, fixing him with a disapproving look. Marcus sat up from where he was slouched on the settee, belching loudly before throwing down his fork. It bounced off the polished oak table and disappeared somewhere underneath the floating serving cart.

“Yes, why not? Give it here,” he reached for the large mound of cream topped with sugared rose petals that had appeared out of thin air, hovering aggressively close to the tip of his nose. He started spooning at the small mountain, locking eyes with his house elf occasionally to exchange glares. “You always do the best cooking when my mother threatens to visit.”

He had polished off two-thirds when Zippy finally burst, bat-like ears stiff with annoyance: “ _Master Marcus must not make the Mistress unhappy!_ ”

“Master Marcus can do whatever the fuck he wants,” Marcus chanted back, pitching his voice cruelly. He immediately regretted it, as the house elf burst out into tears. “Oh for Salazar’s sake, Zip.”

“ _Mistress barely sleeps at night!_ ” Zippy gave a high-pitched groan, pencil-stick nose drooping miserably. “Ever since He- He- He-Who-Must-Not –“

The remaining pudding went flying along with the crystal bowl. Marcus found himself standing, heartbeat thundering in his ears. “I. Don’t. Want. To. Hear. It.” He ground out through his teeth, chucking the dessert spoon sideways into the fireplace where it made a satisfying clang against the ornate fire iron.

He stomped out of the sitting room, stripping out of his quidditch robes as he went. He banged open the door to the bathroom with a wave of his wand before tossing it onto a dresser. 7 Grosvenor Crescent had once been his grandfather’s favoured winter residence – it was large enough for half of Slytherin house to move in, and everything was ostentatious, polished to a sheen or made of black marble.

Marcus pulled a face while he sank into the claw-footed bathtub. His torso, littered with bruises, quickly disappeared beneath a layer of snowy foam. Shame came creeping up his neck once the tub was filled with steaming water. He’d behaved like some spoilt child.

Living with Zippy, despite all his affections for the house elf, made him aggressive, threw him back to his appalling childhood self. But his mother had insisted. Had apparated to his shared flat in South London and vanished half his belongings. Had threatened to _pull strings_ that would kick him off the team by Christmas. 

“A Flint doesn’t live among filth, you’d do well to remember that, Marcus,” she’d said. Simply remembering the scene made his blood boil, his skin itch with suppressed anger. But poor Zippy was the least responsible for any of this tosh.

He finished bathing much sooner than usual and crept back to the sitting room. It was deserted and dark. Zippy had cleaned up after him, as always. He went downstairs and found the elf puttering away in the kitchen among gleaming copper pans and pots. Instead of looming around, he took a seat on the stone floor near the cupboard where Zippy had arranged his nest.

“Master Marcus should be resting for his quidditch tomorrow,” Zippy said stiffly, levitating a large stack of plates a few inches to the side. 

“I’m sorry,” Marcus said in a rush, feeling his ear redden. “I was a git, alright?”

The elf cleared away a few sacks of potatoes with the twitch of his long fingers. When he finally faced Marcus again, his mouth was still pursed, but he pulled a lilac-coloured envelope out of his dish towel. “An owl arrived for Master Marcus. An owl from France. Zippy did not tell the Mistress, no.”

“Rosier?” Marcus snatched up the letter, ripping it open. “For fuck’s sake. She’s coming back.”

“Zippy heard from Flop that Miss Velebeth was missed at Stormview, sir!”

Marcus snorted out loud: “They had her brother and half a dozen cousins chasing her across Europe, she was missed alright!” He folded up the letter but remained where he was crouched, watching as Zippy finished up with his cleaning.

*

Rosier’s letter followed him around like a particularly nasty poltergeist for the next few weeks, cropping up at the worst of times. Not only because she was returning just in time for Yule, which Marcus fiercely dreaded, but because she’d asked after Oliver Wood.

Puddlemere United was second to last in the league, almost tied with the Canons, and Falmouth wasn’t to play them again until March. There was no reason whatsoever why Marcus would waste any thought on Oliver Wood, except – who was he fucking kidding? Of course he thought about Wood. There were three letters, tucked away at the bottom of his old school trunk, that could attest to a regular thumbing. And if he kept a closer eye on potential keeper transfers during the break, it sure could be explained away with his general Quidditch passion – but really, it was about Oliver fucking Wood.

But Marcus was a professional. At playing chaser, and at plain, good old avoidance. He spent the first half of December ignoring his mother’s howlers, ignoring Zippy’s reproachful glares and shutting everything out of his head that wasn’t to do with the next league match. And it was _fine_ , really. Barring all those annoyances, he didn’t ever remember being so bloody happy in his entire life.

No Hogwarts. No teachers and homework. No mucking about in the Slytherin common room with idiots. No one calling him a troll, or stupid, or whatever the fuck else there was.

*

“ _Como vai_ , Flint? You want to stay after?”

Marcus stretched out on the pitch, groaning. His calves felt like they were combusting internally from the last hour of diving practice. Alejandro Silva, who seemed awfully relaxed, stretched out a hand and heaved him up with a hearty tug.

“For the spiral dives? You reckon three hours aren’t bloody well enough?” Marcus grabbed for his Siberian Arrow reflexively, and it instantly righted itself, hovering in mid-air, responding to every little touch. Most of the team had already cleared off, eager for a hot shower after the entire day spent in the blistering cold.

“I think I must show you how we do the _mergulho_ in Rio,” Silva said in his sing-songy drawl, wiping down his gleaming face with a glove. “Before I knew about the magic I did the diving in the ocean with my mother. She works as instructor, see.”

Marcus only nodded, awkward all of a sudden. He was at ease with most of his teammates, but Silva always volunteered personal information like others tossed the quaffel. He especially liked talking about muggle Brazil, his muggle family and other muggle things he enjoyed in England.

They did some more spiral dives, veering left and right, testing out the best angles until the sun had properly set on the training grounds, a light snow flurry threatening to thicken into a proper blizzard.

“How is your mother, Flint?” Silva had finally dropped off his broom. Marcus went to join him and caught an amused glint in the Brazilian’s dark eyes. He scowled: “In her best health, fucking bombarding me with howlers every other day.”

“Ah, _si_ , a very passionate lady,” Silva grinned at him while they trudged towards the glowing windows of the changing rooms. “ _Que saco!_ But you were a good roomie for that month, Flint.”

Their brief stint as flatmates in Croydon had been terminated swiftly when his mother turned up in the fireplace and encountered a buck-naked Silva exiting their grimy kitchen, airing out his underpants with some foreign spell. Everything inside Marcus twisted in annoyance and embarrassment whenever he thought back on that particular scene.

He quickly pushed back the swelling anger and went to shower.

The truth was: He had no desire to share details on his family or his childhood. It was nothing that brought him joy, or Merlin forbid, made him particularly proud. He always had known, in a way, but a year out of Hogwarts had shown him just how sodding miserable the Most Honourable and Ancient House of Flint was. And now there was this Dark Lord business…

Marcus shoved away the thought and punished himself with a gust of cold water before blasting himself with a drying charm, bidding Silva goodbye and apparating home. There was an itch inside him, something he would’ve worked out by means of a good fuck back in Hogwarts. But he hadn’t shagged anyone in a while now. For more than a year, to be exact.

Something brief flashed in his head, a pale shoulder blade dappled with sunlight.

Marcus halted mid-motion, waiting for the sharp feeling of it to pass. He could hear Zippy talking in the kitchen, and he traipsed towards the familiar voice unthinkingly, feeling suddenly quite gutted.

“That elf has no sense of decorum,” the portrait of Etheldred Flint was following him through a series of greyish landscapes, elbowing aside a few of the other painted residents to keep up. “Letting in a stranger without his Master’s permission _, really_.”

Marcus flicked her a cold look, but stopped in the door when his brain registered the meaning of her words. A second later Velebeth Rosier was already accosting him with a hug, smiling wide, her face suntanned and flushed. She let go of him and elbowed his ribs after a moment: “Oh, for Salazar’s sake, Flint, can’t you show even a smidgen of fucking happiness at seeing an old school mate?”

“You’re early,” he told her dumbly after a beat.

“I though that keeping to a schedule might make things a mite too easy for my mother. She’s been routinely intercepting my owls, that old hag,” Rosier laughed, throwing back her head. She looked – different. Bronzed, but also uncharacteristically happy. “Well, you big quidditch lug, Zippy here’s been making us dinner.”

They sat down at the long kitchen table and were served onion soup. Zippy routinely cast him pleased looks while he brought out more bread, goblets for butterbeer, antique saltshakers and the crowning glory of the meal – a gigantic rhubarb crumble served with cream. Rosier wouldn’t stop talking. She went on about Marseille, the potion shops in the south of France, a charm she’d learned in northern Italy, the witches she met while in Corsica, the Tunisian Ghoul in her hotel room, the curse breaker she briefly dallied with in Cairo, the seers in Delphi, on and on she went.

“Of course, Felix came close to catching me once or twice, Clairmont-Ferrand really was a disaster, I’ll avoid that wretched town in the future –“

“Why did you come back?” Marcus said, louder than he’d intended. Rosier closed her mouth and laid down her dessert spoon, fixing him with a hard look that seemed much more her old, snobbish Hogwarts-self: “Why wouldn’t I?”

Marcus gestured around the kitchen with his own spoon, indicating the Flint family crest stamped onto every last pot. “Has the sun fried your brains? They’re currently trying to make me marry Eudora Selwyn, Warrington’s already engaged, Anwar Shafiq –“

“No need to catch me up,” Rosier said snidely, “It was me who suggested Philippa Burke for Shafiq. I hear they’re already expecting.”

“Fine, then they won’t hitch you to Shafiq. It’ll be someone else!” Something was bubbling inside Marcus’ stomach alongside the butterbeer. “You sound like you were having a fucking grand time in Europe –“

Rosier stood, and for a moment Marcus thought that she was going to apparate away. But she reached out a demanding hand: “Where can we talk?” Marcus gaped at her, uncomprehending. Things were going a little too fast for his liking.

“Master and Miss can talk in the attic,” Zippy quipped from beside the fireplace, little face eager. Marcus turned towards his house elf with a betrayed scowl, but Zippy spoke up again: “Zippy can make it so that no one hears.”

“Are you fucking serious –“ Marcus barely had any time to protest before his house elf had seized both his and Rosier’s hand, and with a resounding CRACK he found himself transported to a cramped space devoid of any light. “In the name of Merlin’s soggiest fucking underpants –“

“That’s an eager elf you’ve got,” Rosier quipped somewhere from his right. “ _Lumos!_ ”

“ _Lumos!_ ”

With both their wands alight they managed to clear a spot between meticulously kept storage boxes, wrapped-up furniture and dubious piles of old portraits. It was so quiet up here that Marcus could almost hear his own heartbeat – or maybe that was just Zippy’s elf magic working away at the promised privacy.

“You’re making everything unnecessarily difficult, Marcus Flint,” Rosier sat down on the floorboards, sighing out loud while directing her beam of light at the slanted roof above their heads. “I was trying to ease you into it, you daft git!”

“Ease me into _what_?” Marcus gritted out.

Rosier ignored him, brandishing her wand in a complicated figure. She looked downright eery in the dimmed glow of their respective _Lumos_ , face solemn in concentration. A golden whirl of flame erupted from the centre of her repeated wand movement, and Marcus screwed his eyes half-shut against the sudden glare. It took him a moment to gather that something had dropped into his lap.

Rosier clucked her tongue impatiently while Marcus picked up a roll of smoking parchment. He raised his eyebrow at her before tapping his wand against it, a few times for good measure. It unfurled into a list. A list of names, to be exact.

“Is this your extended family in France, or what?”

“You bloody well know what this is, Flint.”

Marcus said nothing. The truth was that he did recognize a good third of the names listed – had heard them during his childhood, or even met them at Flint Manor during formal dinners. Tremblay, Urquart, a couple Fawleys. A whole segment of Lestranges. Then there were names he knew faintly from his parents’ retelling: Armagnac, Grailly, Parthon de Von. Old, pureblood families from the continent.

“Don’t know what the fuck this is supposed to be,” he said, hearing the tension in his own voice and cursing himself for it. Rosier gave a disbelieving snort – she was suddenly very close, plucking the parchment from his hands and vanishing it with a swish. She smelled faintly of salt and brine, tangy and sharp. Like she’d only recently apparated away from the seaside.

Marcus realized with a start that she was shaking slightly.

“I was supposed to come back in the summer, you know,” The tips of their noses were almost touching. It was surprisingly awkward, given that their relationship had been quite physical, what with the regular shagging during their last year at Hogwarts. “But then Clairmont happened. You remember my cousin Minette, right? Blonde witch, Beauxbaton graduate? Well, she met a bloke while interning in Paris. Nice enough chap, nothing special about him – except that he was a _muggle_.” She spat out the last word in a way that had him reeling back, catching the edge of something hard with his elbow. “You can imagine what they did to him.”

Marcus grit his teeth together. Something unbearable was pressing against the confines of his chest. It was all too much. Rosier’s abrupt appearance. The howlers his mother kept sending. Fucking Oliver Wood who wouldn’t sod off from his own traitorous mind. “I don’t want to know,” he managed to croak out. 

“Oh, so you’re closing your eyes like the rest of them?” Marcus shoved away, but Rosier inched closer, pointing the ray of light straight into his face. He’d never seen her so livid before. “Don’t know who I despise more, to be honest. The ones that joined up straight away, or _cowards like yourself_ –“

The next thing he knew, he had already apparated away, thudding down to his knees in the empty kitchen. He sat down in his customary spot next to Zippy’s deserted nest and put his head between his knees. Rosier didn’t come to find him.


End file.
